Page 48 of Echo in the Wind

Holding a cloth over the wound, he said to Gabe, “Ask Cook for some of that clover honey we acquired in Guernsey, s’il vous plaît. A small jar will do.”

While he waited for the honey, another substance Bouchet used liberally, Jean brooded over the grisly wound on so fair a skin. “Quel sacrilège,” he hissed under his breath. Silently, he prayed she would heal. Her skin would be marked, but he was not a man to care about a woman’s jagged scar. He had scars of his own to match any left on her.

A lock of her hair had fallen over her forehead and he reached out to brush it from her beautiful face. A long auburn curl lying on the pillow drew his attention. He picked it up and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. He had admired her hair from afar more than once and, now, it was in his hand. In the light of the lantern, he saw more clearly the strands of burnished copper ribboned in auburn locks.

More than her beauty, it had been her spirit that drew him. Lady Joanna was bold, independent and unafraid. Seeing her like this, broken and struggling to live, flooded him with tender feelings and a desire to protect her.

He could love such a woman if he allowed himself, but his last venture down that path had nearly destroyed him. He could not again risk so much. And she might not be willing. Despite what must have been many offers for her hand, she had accepted none. Then too, they came from different worlds, even different faiths.

But if he had anything to say about it, she would be a smuggler no more.

He took her hand and gently squeezed. “’Twill be all right, Lady Joanna,” he whispered. “I will not allow you to die.”

A few minutes later, Gabe returned with the honey.

“Good lad. Now, a clean shirt if you will.” Once he had bandaged her wound, the shirt would serve as a chemise de nuit for her.

The boy took one of Jean’s shirts from a chest under the stern windows and brought it to the bed, laying it at her feet.

“Ask Cook to make some willow bark tea.” The tea could have waited, but Jean wanted to be alone with Lady Joanna for what he had to do next.

Gabe did as bid and turned toward the cabin door.

Jean poured a bit of honey on her wound, just enough to cover and seal the gaping flesh. Removing the cloth that covered her breasts, he lifted her with one arm and wrapped the length of bandage around her belly with the other. He repeated the action three times before laying her back against the pillow.

As carefully as he could, Jean slipped the shirt over her head and worked her arms into the sleeves, then inched the shirt down her body. Unable to resist, he bent over her and touched his lips to her forehead. Her skin was still cool. Then he covered her and sat back.

“Voilà, c’est fait.”

If by sheer force of his will he could compel her to live, she would.

Chapter 13

Joanna’s thoughts swirled in a misty fog as she and her companions waited on the beach for a smuggler’s ship expected off Bognor. Near darkness surrounded them as hours passed, the only sound the waves racing over the shingles. The ship had not appeared as expected. She fretted, a sinking feeling coming over her. What has happened?

Finally, a ship emerged out of the fog, heaving to just offshore. Its sails seemed to glow in the light of the full moon peeking through the mist.

Anxiety washed over her. Something was amiss.

Suddenly, an Excise cutter broke through the darkness, guns blazing flames, illuminating the smoke-filled air. Shot sliced through the sheets of the smuggler’s ship.

Men grunted as they fell; others raced to the guns to return fire.

The air exploded around them.

“No!” she screamed, her heart pounding in her chest.

A cool cloth brushed over her forehead and the images faded. She awoke to pain and nausea and a vague sense of motion like being rocked in a cradle. Someone held her hand.

Where was she?

“’Tis all right, Lady Joanna. You are safe.”

She rolled her head toward the voice she recognized as belonging to the French comte and slowly opened her eyes.

Haunted black eyes looked back at her. He was not the fashionably attired comte she remembered in his crisp white shirt garnished with lace, claret waistcoat and black velvet coat. He was not even the ship’s captain clothed all in black, his features shadowed beneath his tricorne. Here was an entirely different man.

Haggard in appearance, his ebony hair, shot with silver, hung disheveled and unconfined, long to his shoulders. His wrinkled shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing a scattering of black hair on his tanned chest. Here was the pirate she had only heard about, a seductive Frenchman who must have broken many hearts.